Frankenstein Remake: Never Far
by ImalaTruthSeeker
Summary: Frankenstein Remake because what if Frankenstein existed before the book written by Mary Shelley? What if real historical figures were involved in his creation? And what if he were still here, in the 21st century, waiting for someone to cross his path and show him that humanity has a place for him? This story won't follow with the book or any movie.


**Please drop a line of encouragement if you like this ^.^**

 **. . .**

The night sky deepened as the clock continued striking past the hour that even night owls considered late. Stars burst forth like silent ninjas on the prowl, pricking the heavens with ornaments of white light, although heavily muted thanks to light pollution. The thief in the night scuttling from shadow to shadow still took a moment to pause and gaze at the faraway stars before disappearing from alongside the stone wall of an east London church.

One last glance for onlookers and the church's stillness was pierced with an unwelcome presence. Inside, that presence lowered the hood to reveal feminine features. Ignoring the lock box in the office because that wasn't her intentions, the intruder calmly breathed in the stale warm air and strolled to a door. Noiselessly, the girl prowled to the topmost level of the church, the bell tower.

A slender hand reached up to adjust hidden items within the large hoodie before the girl walked over slowly to the edge. The cool night air offered a breath of fresh air distinctive from the smell within. Letting her fingertips graze the stone lip, she strolled the entire perimeter before grasping the edges and jumping to balance.

Light eyes rested on the ground below, the height almost dizzying, but she was used to the sudden lurch in her stomach that preceded an adrenaline rush. Looking away, a sliver of her reflection stared back at her from the polished brass of the bell. Reaching up, she felt along the edge for purchase, and felt the cold grooves of wear in the stone. She wasn't the only one who visited the bell tower in such a way.

Muscles honed with familiar use, she heaved herself onto the belfry roof by easing the tip of her foot on the arched ledge and pushing. On this roof, there were little arched open windows that she moved to straddle with a sigh of relief. Once the adrenaline rush eased and soothed her nerves, she leant back onto the cool stone of the tip of the steeple.

She wasn't there to stargaze. London wasn't exactly the place for such a habit. No, she was there for the view of London itself. Although not in the busiest parts of London, there was still something fascinating about the congested business of the rooftops of some of the oldest buildings. The glow of light pollution blended perfectly with the darkness of the galaxy itself.

Familiar urges took over as she pulled out a medium sized sketchbook and flipped it open. Wasting no time, her slim fingers flew across the pages in mesmerizing blurs, taking shape transforming the industrial view into something ethereal and beautiful.

Deeply engrossed in the art flowing from her fingertips, the girl didn't see the large, shifting shadow that stood behind the stone steeple that rubbed along her back. Its strange yellow eyes glared down at the midnight intruder.

A small blade glinted silver from the streetlights as he pulled it from within the folds of his black cloak, catching his yellow eyes in his peripheral vision. He twisted the blade slowly, letting it catch the light. Shadows slid across his face as he silently moved closer, arcing from nose to eye socket, concealing and revealing eyes that had seen more than they ever should.

Still, he did not blink as he stared down at the intruder.

His movements rippled within the shadows, subtle and difficult to detect as he held the knife high, ready to strike like a coiled viper. His eyes landed on the figure's graceful ministrations, ceasing his movement. He lowered the blade and sheathed it one handed in a single fluid motion.

The intruder paused. Then a pair of brilliant blue eyes landed on his shadowed form. He stilled with dread.

"Hello," whispered across his hardened skin like butterfly wings, amusement evident in the lilt of her voice.

She tilted her head curiously when she was greeted with silence. Not a moment before, an intense feeling of danger had crept over her back like a suffocating blanket. That's when she heard the mere whisper of a sound, a whoosh that didn't fit the noises of the evening. It didn't fit, and that's when she knew that no longer was she alone on top of the church.

Despite the fear lodged deeply in the cavity of her chest, she jokingly commented, "I promise that I don't bite, my midnight rooftop comrade." Although he still refused to speak, there was palpably less tension in his large shoulders. That had to be a good sign.

Shrugging, she turned around and offered, "You can watch me draw if you'd like. I'm nearly done."

Nearby, a pencil began scratching across a piece of paper once again. The sound carried to the figure still as a statue in thin, clear tones. He felt the rhythm of the point as it sliced along its path on the page. He watched expressionlessly as the young girl sat among the stone rooftop, the pad opened across her lap. Her black hoodie blended in with the darkness as if the night itself was a part of her, not unlike his own form.

The still statue of a man watched, mesmerized. From this distance he had put between them before she had turned, he couldn't see what she was drawing, yet he imagined he saw every line.

The wind shifted and ruffled the edges of the book. The girl shivered, and the statue watched silently, every movement scrutinized with fascination.

She paused and looked up. Black, curly hair framed her face. Her eyes found his.

He took a breath, his whole body shuddering as he let it out. When was the last time a human had stared directly in his eyes without fear or disgust, besides the innocent curiosity of a child?

It took him a moment to realize she was reaching out to him. No, but there was something in her hand. He didn't take it.

Rather than be offended, the girl stood up, unaware at how tense her movement made the man in the shadows. Gripping the stone steeple as tightly as she could, she held the page out to him and declared, "Since you kept me company, you can have this." Turning it over, she quickly scribbled a bit and handed it back to him, more insistently, "Here, take it. Please."

Hesitantly, he reached his hand toward the page that his large hand engulfed in size. He studied the drawing, then turned it over to view the etching on the back. She had scribbled her name, "Ursula Shipton", in the bottom right hand corner.

It was dark, but he could see that the artwork was good. Surprising talent. Before he could reign in his thoughts, he spoke in a low voice, "It's good."

Beaming more at the response rather than the words, she curtsied and said, "Well thank you, good Sir."

Suddenly, before she had fully straightened, her foot slipped, and she began to slide down the smooth tiles of the roof. Her arms flailed as her heel hit the edge, but just before she fell to her death, a large hand moved with astonishing speed to grip the front of her hoodie. Shocked, her hands snapped to encircle his wrist, which nearly took both her hands to cover, and stared into the orange-yellow eyes of her savior. His features were unclear and hidden within the cover of his hood, but those eyes obscured the possibility of other details, so mesmerizing they were.

With ease that belied his size, he set her firmly against the stone steeple once more without once losing his own footing.

Exhaling shakily, she gripped the steeple and leaned her forehead into the pebbled stone, uncaring of any marks it would leave behind. "Thank you…again."

The man was tenser than before, bordering on agitation, so she watched him cautiously from the corner of her eye. Trying to make light of the situation, she teased, "Who knew that quest for art could be so dangerous."

Rather than find humor in her words, the man glared daggers at her. Her heart thundered with fear once again, and she struggled to swallow it down.

His question came out sharper than he intended, "Why are you climbing on church rooftops to draw in the middle of the night? It's not safe. Go to a nice park in daylight surrounded by people." _Where you can't find me,_ he thought to himself.

Raising her eyebrow at him, she chose not to point out the hypocrisy of his statement. Instead she quoted softly, _"What a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it!"_

His brows raised as he mumbled, _"The human race is a monotonous affair. Most people spend the greatest part of their time working in order to live, and what little freedom remains so fills them with fear that they seek out any and every means to be rid of it."_

"Ah! You know _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ as well. Not many people do."

With a faraway look in his strange eyes, he replied, "Not anymore."

The shrill siren of an ambulance echoed through the air from several blocks away as she continued to stare into the depths of his hood, where he remained featureless. Sighing, she declared, "It's late, and I like being back at the hotel before people begin waking up for the day." Shrugging that fact off as if it were nothing, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Tomorrow night, I'll find another rooftop. I won't invade your space again." She chuckled despite the awkwardness. "Well, it was nice meeting you, whoever you are."

Foot placed more securely than before, she reached a steady hand out. It was there long enough for her to wonder if he would reciprocate.

Slowly, his much larger hand inched toward hers much like a turtle leaving its shell. He lightly grasped her hand in his, effectively swallowing it whole. He stared, as if torn, at their joined hands as she grinned mischievously. "Told you I wouldn't bite."

As she pulled her hand back toward the safety of her body, he spoke firmly, "My name is Caliban Franklin." The sound of his name rolling off his tongue as if it had a will of its own was enough to turn him back to stone as he glanced uneasily back at the girl.

She simply grinned back at him as she pulled the hood back over her head. Carefully maneuvering to the edge of the roof, she glanced back to comment, "It's easier climbing up than down."

Ursula quickly dropped from view, swinging down and inward to land smoothly on her feet. She had a distinct lack of fear in situations she ought to be. It was like something was wrong with her brain. For instance, although there was a deep instinctual reaction to that man's presence, she wasn't _afraid of_ him. She could sense that she ought to be though.

She shook her head from within her hood and rolled her shoulders. Her shoulders were tense from hunching over the drawing for so long.

A familiar voice pierced her thoughts and halted her movements as she jumped in surprise. He stood like a nightly gargoyle within the shadows on the other side of the bell. No matter how much she squinted, the darkness refused to reveal its secrets to her.

"Where will you go tomorrow night?"

Head tilting to the side, she shrugged. "I don't know yet. Preferably somewhere high." As she spoke, she gently moved toward her left, eyes focused on his form. But the more she moved left, the more he moved to her right, always keeping the bell perfectly between them.

Why did he hide himself? People didn't hide themselves for no reason? He was far too enormous to be fearful. Her eyes narrowed speculatively at him.

His voice sliced through the night again like a knife through butter. There was something about that low deep voice that sent tingles down her spine. It was why she wanted to catch a glimpse of his face, which he guarded closely like a Templar Knight trade secret.

"Do you know St. Paul's cathedral?"

Her eyes widened, and she stopped her slow stalking. "The one that overlooks the bridge? In the city? You do realize that's a much busier area than around here, right?"

A low chuckle answered her. "Londoners are quite adept at remaining blind to their surroundings. Technology has a self-imposed imprisoning shutter over their eyes. I frequent St. Paul's and have never been caught. In fact, I move through the night using that blindness for anonymity." His voice turned wry as he finished, "It worked well for me until tonight."

"I'm not going to apologize. I was able to meet someone interesting and somewhat annoyingly mysterious."

"You won't regret the view if you choose St. Paul's. I'd be happy to provide a commentary on the history as well."

Before she could respond, there was a low swish as warm air reached out to caress her cheek.

Ursula smiled to herself and knew that she was alone.


End file.
